


acroamatic

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Relationships, Extra Treat, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pining, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:52:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: “Han loved you,” Ransolm insisted. “He would have done anything for you. And you had to try.”“That’s none of your business.” She spoke with her general’s tone, the tone that had cowed so many people that it seemed to expect the same now.But Ransolm wouldn’t be cowed, not this time. “You’re right,” he replied, determined, refusing to feel the sting of hurt at her words. It was true, after all. This wasn’t his place. Not here. Not now. Just being here suited him not at all; they both knew it. “It’s not. But you need to hear it anyway.” No one else will say this to you now. We were colleagues once, equals. Here you are surrounded by subordinates. “It’s not your fault.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magnetgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetgirl/gifts).



Ransolm’s hand hovered over the panel to the left of the door, his fingers twitching with indecision. Even after six years, he still didn’t know how best to approach Leia, not at times like this. _There’s been so much loss,_ he thought. _It’s not like you haven’t had enough practice at it._

Never a loss quite like this though. Not—not a _death_ like this. A gulf had opened itself between him and her, one he couldn’t bridge with charm or kindness or plain stubbornness.

Han Solo. Gone. By his son’s own hand. By _Leia’s_ son’s hand.

There was no imagining what that must feel like for her. His thoughts skittered every time he analyzed them too closely himself. Solo was a war hero, a general, Leia Organa’s husband. That he was now dead… it was unfathomable. How she’d held it together so far…

He sighed, lifted his chin, brushed at the plain brown tunic he wore. _You can do this_. She probably didn’t need him; she was so much stronger than everyone else he’d ever met, but there was the smallest chance she did. And so he had to do something. Before he could decide better of it, he tapped the panel, a chime ringing from within. His ears strained to hear something, anything from inside, but the walls were thick, the doors soundproofed. You were only ever meant to hear the doorbell.

He wouldn’t know until—

“You’d better come in then,” Leia said, hoarse, door sliding open before her. She looked breathtaking in a brittle, careful sort of way, as though any small misstep could crumble the whole of her dignity, her self-control. Ransolm wasn’t sure if that was true or not—he wasn’t a mind reader, after all, and Leia could still be an enigma even after all this time—but it seemed that way. And that was enough to make him want to gather her up and hold her close.

He almost laughed, pained, both at himself and at the situation. How poorly would Leia take such an action on his part? _Very, quite likely_.

“Took you longer than I thought it would,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward her bed. His heart skipped, plummeted into his stomach. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t suggestive. It’s not like there was anywhere else for him to sit; she kept spare quarters the same as everyone else. Extraneous furniture went to others, it seemed. Even Ransolm had a chair in his own quarters.

Taking a careful seat, he rubbed his palms over his thighs, the rough spun cloth of his trousers catching on the dry callouses of his hand. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve disappointed you,” he said, a grim, self-deprecating smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

She laughed, harsh, which was a better reception than Ransolm expected. “Get you a drink?” she asked, striding toward a cupboard inset in the back wall.

“I—” Swallowing, he nodded. “Yes.”

She nodded, too, perfunctory, half-hearted at best. Poured a pair of glasses, carried them over, sat heavily next to him. Her thigh was warm against his. Locking away as best he could the feelings that contact instigated, he took one of the glasses from her. Longing, impossible and offensively untimely, threatened to consume him. The liquor burned as it went down, fully half of the measure she’d given him.

He felt like his insides had been scraped out, an ache settling in his chest that he had no right to. This wasn’t his loss after all. For all that it seemed as though something had been taken from him, too.

“We’re going to have to have a memorial for him,” she said, voice dull. Rolling her eyes, she peered down into her drink and crooked a terrible smile into it, a hard, pained smile. “He’d have hated that.”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, I don’t.” She knocked her glass back, hissing after she swallowed its entire contents. Darkly amused, she added, “I’ll just make Lando handle it.”

She was always very good at knowing what he was going to say.

Ransolm bit his lip, looked away. It didn’t seem right to laugh at a time like this, but despite not knowing General Calrissian well, he imagined that would be a sight to behold. “I could get into contact with him if you’d like.” Regretting the offer, he took another sip of his drink, fingernails tapping nervously against the side of the glass. He’d traded away a piece of information he hadn’t wanted to share and there was no way Leia hadn’t noticed it. He hid his grimace as best he could, but from the brightness in Leia’s eyes, he suspected he wasn’t quite as successful at it as he’d have hoped.

It wasn’t his job to protect her. No matter how much he wanted to.

“That’s all right,” she said, kinder than he deserved all things considered. She shouldn’t need to comfort him. Not at a time like this. “He’s already insisted.”

“Right.” Ransolm remembered a time when he could talk to Leia easily. What he wouldn’t give to have that back. Some of it anyway. He wouldn’t—as awkward as it could be, as painful—he wouldn’t trade his _feelings_ for her away. No matter their pointlessness, they were a part of him. He looked down at his hands, free palm up, his fingers shaking until he balled them into a fist. His knuckles knocked lightly against his kneecap. “Of course.”

 _How silly of you,_ he thought, _to think you might do something for her._

Leia sighed, her breath hitching lightly on the exhale, Ransolm’s heart pounding furiously at the shock of hearing it. His hands itched to reach for her, to soothe, to smooth away that vile hitch.

“I tried to talk him out of it,” she continued, shaking her head. “Stubborn old fool.” She laughed then, harsh. “Not much different than me in that respect.”

“You _are_ stubborn,” Ransolm said. “But that’s not a bad thing.”

She wasn’t going to break down; he wasn’t going to be asked to hold her, nor comfort her, nor even in some small, appropriate way. She would prevail as she always did. And he loved her for that, loved her for that and so much more.

But she did not need Ransolm to prevail beside her.

“We wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she said, which was true. They wouldn’t have been there, none of them. Leia had built this thing, gathered these people to her, led them against a threat Ransolm hadn’t seen coming, that no one had seen coming. But, he suspected, that wasn’t what she was talking about.

“He wouldn’t have had it any other way, you know,” he answered. _I can tell you that from personal experience_. “He wouldn’t have regretted—”

Her eyes flashed, dancing with a moment’s worth of fury before the flames subsided. He suspected he knew why. She’d ordered him, earlier, to prepare a room, a _secure_ room, far off the base’s beaten paths. He’d overheard Han mentioning having seen their son before striding away, careful to intercept anyone who might’ve wanted to catch up with either Leia or Han while they discussed it. It didn’t require much reaching to figure out what she’d wanted, what she’d asked of him, what Han had failed to accomplish for her.

And he would never, ever admit to her that he knew who’d done it, not unless she told him herself or made an official, public announcement regarding his involvement. He had already given voice to one of her secrets. He wouldn’t do that again, not even privately.

“Han loved you,” Ransolm insisted. “He would have done anything for you. And you had to try.”

“That’s none of your business.” She spoke with her general’s tone, the tone that had cowed so many people that it seemed to expect the same now.

But Ransolm wouldn’t be cowed, not this time. “You’re right,” he replied, determined, refusing to feel the sting of hurt at her words. It was true, after all. This wasn’t his place. Not here. Not now. Just being here suited him not at all; they both knew it. “It’s not. But you need to hear it anyway.” _No one else will say this to you now. We were colleagues once, equals. Here you are surrounded by subordinates_. “It’s not your fault.”

Leia snorted, an inelegant sound from an otherwise elegant woman. “Thank you, Ransolm,” she said. “That really helps.”

Quiet, he sighed. There wasn’t anything he could say to that. Not—not that would help.

He wasn’t looking at her now, but he heard the rustling of her uniform, the shift of her weight on the bed. Longing threatened to overwhelm him, quickly tamped down and put away, hidden from himself and Leia alike. Her hand, warm and smooth, curled around his wrist, startling him, and slid over his palm to clasp his fingers. “I’m sorry,” she said, gruff. “That wasn’t fair.”

He wanted to tug his hand free.

He wanted to cover her hand with both of his.

“Leia,” he said, weary, heart throbbing beneath his breastbone at the contact she’d instigated. “You don’t have to apologize to me. For anything.”

“I do.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“You should.” Fierce, she sounded, certain. “I rely on you because you do.”

“Your people care about you.” He shrugged and swallowed, throat clicking, dry. “You are loved. You always will be.”

Leia smiled, soft, a little bit of the weight lifting from her shoulders, the shadows in her eyes lightening. “I’ve been fortunate,” she admits, “in that respect.”

Ransolm nodded, silent for a moment before moving to stand. He’d said his piece. She knew what he needed her to know, as little a difference as it made. She did not stop him from disentangling himself from her grip.

He made it to the door before she spoke again. “Ransolm,” she said, voice heavy, “I hope I’m not the only one who knows they’re loved.”

“No,” Ransolm said, back to her, hand pressed against the door, “you’re not. Take care, Leia. If you need anything—”

“I know. Thank you.”

 _Thank you_ , he mouthed, the door bearing this secret for him.

It will keep, he thinks.

It has kept this long after all.


End file.
